


Behind His Desk

by Dojh167



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7109134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dojh167/pseuds/Dojh167
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div>
  <p>
    <em>The world is wrong.</em>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Behind His Desk

**Author's Note:**

> Banner by beyond the rain @ TDA  
>   
>  _Originally posted on HPFF on 7/13/15. Written for theghostofhislastlaugh’s First Day of Term Challenge_  
> 

Professor Albus Dumbledore sits behind his desk. It is the first day of September. Everything is as it should be.

Albus’ hands routinely run over the surface before him, ensuring that every quill, every trinket, every speck of dust, is in its proper place.

His hands fall upon the few sheets of parchment stacked before him. His fingers caress the pages, but he does not need to read them to know what they say.

Cedric Amos Diggory.

Lily Rene Evans.

Remus John Lupin.

Dorcas Anne Meadowes.

Harry James Potter.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Transcripts, yes. These are the students. It’s September first, of course. They are the students starting Hogwarts today.

Aren’t they?

Albus rubs his temples slowly. Something does not add up here.

But they are his students, there is no arguing that. They are the ones who have always been his students. They are the pages that are always in front of him. He spreads the transcripts across the desk, side by side. Each name is an indictment, the curves and corners of the letters cutting deep into his skin.

He will not bleed.

Blood. Yes, get it flowing. To his brain, to his limbs. Albus stands suddenly, pushing his chair back just far enough to allow him space to stand upright. The office before him is huge, and yet the office around him presses in on him, containing and limiting him.

Everything is slower here. Quieter. Harder?

No, the world cannot change. It is him. He is old and feeble. His mind is not what it was. He is not what he was. What he could be. What he should?

Albus will not run. There are a thousand worlds he could escape to, just a step away, but they are not his to inhabit. This world, here, is his. He belongs here, behind his desk.

Slowly, begrudgingly, carefully, resigningly, he sits.

The names still stare and cut at him, but Albus knows they will not take his blood. He sits with his back pressed firmly against the tall chair. He extends his arms and crisply returns the pieces of parchment to neat pile. He looks straight ahead, and touches only the edges of the pages as he moves the stack to the edge of his desk. He does not need to read them to know what they say.

“The students are off to their houses.”

Snape is here now. It is always Snape.

Albus keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead. He knows that Snape is there. Snape knows that he knows he is there. Nothing more is needed.

“Thank you, Severus,” Albus says.

“Another year,” Severus yawns. His voice has always been hollow. Now it is flat. Can a thing be both flat and hollow? Can he be both Severus and Snape?

There is silence. Snape may have left. Albus does not turn his gaze to check. It does not matter who passes behind him, he is always here, always alone.

He runs his old hands over his face. They slowly make their way over his arched forehead, his tired eyes, his crooked nose, his weary mouth, his ancient beard.

Albus holds his arms suspended in front of him, examining them uncertainly. In his mind his skin is charred, yet here before his eyes it is clean, blemished only by the wrinkles of his years.

The world is wrong. No. Again, that’s not right. He is wrong.

The door opens, and Professor Minerva McGonagall enters the office. She strides across the empty room and sits behind the desk. His desk. No, her desk. He is behind his desk. Here, in his office. Looking in at her office, through this frame, this pane.

Ah, Minerva. Of course. She is his clarity.

“Another Potter and Weasley sorted this year,” she murmurs. “Amazing.”

Albus remains silent. Her words were for herself, not for him. But now her eyes wander, and find their way to his image.

She hesitates, but seems to decide to confide in him. “George Weasley’s son, Fred, was among them.” She falters. “I didn’t… I don’t quite know how to handle that.”

There is nothing Albus can say, and yet the words come automatically from his matte lips. “We do the best that we can for our students, and we never stop trying. That is our promise.”

His students lay at his fingertips, flatter and more lifeless than him.

Cedric Amos Diggory.

Lily Rene Evans.

Remus John Lupin.

Dorcas Anne Meadowes.

Harry James Potter.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.


End file.
